“It is nothing. I am glad you are considering letting the children enjoy the nursery. They will have fun with the toys.”
“Gemma may, but Michael will not be content with dolls.”
“There are some toys for a young boy, too.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “My brother was four when he died.”
He leaned one hand on a mullion in the large window. “I did not realize you had a brother. What a tragedy for your family!”
“If he had survived, he would have lived in unbearable agony from his injuries. He had so many broken bones and such damage inside him after being thrown from the runaway pony cart. I was sad, but I have never forgotten it was a blessing for him to be released from that.”
“I don’t know if I could be as accepting of God’s will.” He gazed out at the windswept garden. “I found it almost impossible to see grown men cut down in battle and continue to have faith that God had them in His hands. To lose a child...” He shook his head, and several black strands fell forward into his eyes. He swept them aside, revealing more of the scar that reached almost to the top of his skull.
Sophia shifted her gaze to her own fingers. She clasped them in front of her to keep from combing them up through his hair. Was she mad? The scar might still hurt. After suffering such a wound, he was lucky to be alive.
“I cannot bear to think of losing Gemma or Michael,” he went on.
Sophia did not hesitate this time. She put her fingers on his arm to offer him comfort. He looked from her hand to her eyes. She wondered what he hoped to see, because he said nothing.
His fingers rose slowly toward her face. She imagined her cheek against his palm. His hands belonged to a man accustomed to a hard life of riding hard and fighting hard and struggling to stay alive. What would his touch feel like against her cheek? She slanted toward him, eager to discover the answer.
“There you are, Winthrop,” called Mr. Bradby from beyond the longcase clock.
Sophia straightened, edging away from Lord Northbridge, who snatched his fingers back to his side.
“You are a sight for sore eyes and sorer ears,” Mr. Bradby continued as his long legs made short work of the corridor. “Instead of Herriott being grateful that his bread is buttered on both sides, he has been lamenting that his life has become a hodgepodge of misfortune. I don’t know what is horrible about inheriting this astounding estate and a peerage. True, he will probably have to leg-shackle himself to the old lord’s long shanks daughter, but if it were me...”
Sophia’s face burned with embarrassment as Mr. Bradby noticed, belatedly, that she sat on the other side of the clock. Mr. Bradby’s mouth closed, then opened and closed again without a sound like a fish yanked out of water.
Lord Northbridge’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Mr. Bradby’s, whose face had turned a sickly gray. Mr. Bradby stepped back and raised his hands as if in surrender.
She did not wait to hear what the earl might say to the other man. She rose and edged past both men before the hot tears pricking her eyes escaped to flow down her cheeks. It was appalling enough that she was expected to do her duty and marry Cousin Edmund without question. To hear her cousin’s opinion of her bandied about casually by Mr. Bradby... It was humiliating.
She rushed away before she said something she feared she would not regret until she offended her cousin to the point he sent her family to the battered dower cottage. Up until that moment she had not realized how utterly her life was no longer her own.
Chapter Three
Voices rose up the stairs as Sophia came down them. She hoped that tonight would not be as much of a mess as the day had been.
She wore one of her favorite gowns. The pale lilac cambric with darker stripes was appropriate for both receiving guests and half mourning. White chenille decorated the cuffs of the short sleeves and the three flounces at the gown’s hem. On each step the ornate ribbed design on her stockings could be seen above her white kid slippers. She dared to believe she was prepared for the evening.
That belief vanished when she heard a familiar male voice say, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord. This is my sister Vera.”
Mr. Fenwick! What was the vicar doing here tonight? Oh, heavens, had Cousin Edmund invited him to make plans for marrying her?
She looked over the banister to discover the Fenwicks stood with her sister and Lord Northbridge in the foyer. Neither Cousin Edmund nor Mr. Bradby was in sight.
The urge to run up the stairs and lock herself in her room was thwarted when her eyes met her sister’s. Catherine had a paisley shawl wrapped over the shoulders of her gown whose glorious rich yellow was perfect for her pale complexion and dark eyes. She was as unlike Sophia as two sisters could be. Sophia was tall, and Catherine was petite. Sophia was a blonde like their father while Catherine’s curls were as black as Mama’s...and Lord Northbridge’s.
A surge of warmth rose, unbidden, through her. By the window this afternoon she had been drawn to him as to no other man. To fancy her cousin would have been convenient, but she did not want to have such feelings for the earl. He would soon leave Meriweather Hall to resume his life, a fact she should never forget.
Catherine came up the stairs, drawing the eyes of everyone in the foyer after her. She smiled as she took Sophia’s hand and said, “What a party we shall be tonight! When I invited the Fenwicks to join us, I never had any idea our numbers would grow so.” Under her breath she added, “I am sorry. With the uproar today, I forgot I had invited them after church on Sunday.”
“Did you inform Mrs. Porter?” asked Sophia as quietly, not wanting to chide her sister who took every opportunity to invite Vera, her dearest bosom bow, to Meriweather Hall.
Catherine blanched. Sophia knew her sister had not remembered to tell the cook that the Fenwicks would be joining them tonight. Catherine, who was four years younger than Sophia, had no head when it came to details.
“I will tend to it,” Sophia said. With a smile she hoped did not look forced, she raised her voice and added, “The more the merrier.”
When she saw Lord Northbridge’s eyes narrow at her banal answer, she wondered if there was a way to keep her gaze from shifting toward his often. She pretended she had not noticed him looking at her and hurried down the stairs to greet their pastor and his sister. There was no question that the Fenwicks were closely related. Both Mr. Fenwick and his sister Vera were of average height and with open faces that invited one to stop and talk. Mr. Fenwick’s dark hair was thinning on top, but Vera’s was a lush mass of curls pulled back with silver combs. She was dressed in her best gown, a pristine white with pale pink ribbons decorating the modest bodice. Did she hope to make a positive impression on one of Meriweather Hall’s guests?
Sophia scolded herself as Vera laughed at some sally her brother must have said. There was nothing calculating about Vera Fenwick. She was a sweet soul and served the church and its parishioners as wholeheartedly as her brother. Why was Sophia looking for hidden motives where she knew there were none? Simply because she had been overset by her cousin and his unsettling friends was no excuse for being ill-mannered herself, even in her thoughts.
“Good evening, Mr. Fenwick,” Sophia said, offering her hand to the vicar. “And, Vera, you look lovely tonight.”
Vera
